Page 44 of Drawn Blue Lines

Just silent acknowledgment of an unintended show of weakness.

Pulling his eyes away from me, Brody stepped forward and settled them on Val. “Message received, boss. However, there’s no way Adriana can get inside Muñoz walls after they—”

“After they found out I was a Carrera,” I interrupted, commanding Val’s attention. “It’s all about protecting the bloodline…right, brother?”

Brody glanced back at me with a question in his eyes I ignored.

My words hung in the air, and Val’s grip on his glass tightened. Lines sank deep into his chiseled face, and the corners of his eyes pulled downward. “Adriana, I want to believe you. For almost a year, I’ve tried to find you. I…” His voice trailed off, and he lifted his glass, draining half of it. When he spoke again, his voice was clipped, all emotion on his face erased by the hardened mask of a ruthless leader. “My men will ensure you have all you need. I’ll expect regular updates.”

Without another word, he finished what was left in his glass, slammed it onto the marble bar, and stormed out of the room.

Mateo started after him, then paused, turning back toward us. As usual, his expression held both the unreadable secrets of an exclusive brotherhood and the transparent loyalty that said he wouldn’t hesitate to take us both down to protect them. “Try not to kill each other. I’ll be back to show you to your rooms.”

Brody and I stared after him, speechless for what seemed like forever. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I slumped against the wall, slowly sliding down until my ass hit the floor.

Well, that went well.

A shadow crossed in front of me. “Why wouldn’t you let me tell Val they hurt you?”

Every muscle in my body coiled as I peered up at him through a small space between my index and middle fingers. “Even though he doesn’t trust me, he wouldn’t have let me go if he knew.” Dropping my hands, I rolled my head against the wall and gazed up at him with a half-hearted smirk. “Come on, even a former Muñoz knows Val’s strict code against violence toward women. I told you I want to prove myself, and I meant it. If this is the way I have to do it, then so be it.”

“Are you willing to die for your cause?”

At that moment, the sarcastic shield Brody Harcourt wielded as a weapon failed him. Gone were the dozens of masks he hid behind, leaving only the raw power of a man on the verge of anarchy. A man caught between fighting for a life he never wanted and against his natural instinct to throw me to the wolves.

And in that same moment, I stared down the quiet hallway where the only family I had left disappeared, and the carefully constructed walls I built around myself bent.

“I already have,” I whispered. “Dying isn’t the hard part, Brody. Living, now that’s the real torture.”

* * *

An hour later, I settled into a quiet room on the third floor of the Carrera estate. A place that, despite being the hub of everything I was raised to hate, felt oddly familiar. Almost as if the walls themselves whispered my name.

Dropping my bag on the oversized bed, I found myself drawn to an antique dresser that sat tucked against the opposite wall. Muted and worn, it seemed almost out of place, considering the over-the-top grandeur of the rest of the estate. Closing my eyes, I fought a wave of emotion as I trailed my fingers along the dark wood, every divot and crevice painting a picture of a life I couldn’t remember. A life as real as the wood under my skin, but as ruined as the scratches that marred it.

A life just like this antique dresser. Preserved, yet somehow still lost in time.

Ghosts lived in this room. I heard their whispers, and they tore at my soul. I heard the lullabies coated in the soft, soothing voice I used to hear in my sleep. One I convinced myself over the years was nothing but a hallucination. Only it wasn’t because if I listened hard enough, I could hear it now. I felt her in the air. I felt her in the wood under my fingertips, and I knew it was no accident I’d been put in this room.

I’d been here before.

I’d lived here before.

I’d died here before.

My back slammed against the wall, my eyes squeezing shut to block out the memories assailing me like snapshots from a photo album I’d never seen but knew all the same. The father who never once held me or allowed my name to pass his lips. The small brother who sat outside my bedroom window, watching and protecting as if he somehow felt the end nearing.

And the mother who, in the midst of a massacre, gently sang Duérmete Niño, keeping our family together until the last note took both of us away.

The words echoed within the confines of the four walls.

Duérmete niño, duérmete ya.

Sleep, baby, sleep now.

As pain tore through my chest, I pressed my hands against both ears, but it did nothing to block it out.

Que mientras tanto te canta Mamá.

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